The Singles (4 page)

As if he sensed my reaction to him, his grin widened roguishly. The stare I managed to return was full of forced indifference, raising his thick eyebrows.

Because I didn't think of him as the man from the magazines. The millionaire. Mr. Sex-In-A-Business-Suit. I only knew him as Oliver Manning.

An obstacle.

My
stepbrother
.

I
was nine years old the only other time I’d seen Oliver Manning in person, but I remembered that day well. He was fifteen, and when he knelt by where my mom and I were huddled together on one end of the funeral home’s front pew, his movements tentative and shaky, I knew my father’s death had broken him too. Covering my much smaller hand with his, he’d given my fingers an encouraging squeeze.

I’d looked up through the haze—through the tears—to see his soft smile.

“I’m so sorry about your dad,” he said, his bright blue eyes red-rimmed. Despairing. He seemed to search for the right thing to say before his shoulders had drooped forward. “I’d give anything to fix this for you.”

I released a hiccup, followed by a sob, and then my mom had gathered me close, consoling me quietly in Ukrainian. She said something to Oliver before he left to join his own mother, but I hadn’t heard it.

All I heard was the finality of his words: My father was gone.

Now, as he sauntered away like a man who carelessly held the world in the palms of his hands, everyone remaining in the HR lobby was left wordless, motionless—myself included. Ultimately, Stella cleared her throat.  She came over to where I was still sitting, and with a chuckle, leaned down to whisper, "Like I said, you'll want that drink. You've got my card now—let me know when you're free."

My focus drifted over her shoulder, in the direction that Oliver had taken, and I nodded briskly. "Count on it."

"Good," she purred. Shifting her hips, she stood upright and raced her hands down the front of her black pencil pants. The decadent scent of her jasmine perfume lingered behind her as she left. "I'm off to pimp fashion, but good luck today. If you need any help—and I do mean
anything
—you know where to find me,” she threw over her shoulder as she walked off.

"Thanks," I called after her, although she was already out of sight and likely out of earshot. Hell, she was possibly even already on an elevator—maybe with Oliver.

Nope, don’t even go there.

Still, an image of him nudged its way into my thought—his current panty-eating grin and not the wavering smile of a fifteen-year-old boy—and I closed my eyes. Before I received that call four months ago, I knew a handful of facts about the man who'd been my stepbrother. Even after, my sole focus had been on his mother, so I hadn't gone out my way to research Oliver. Ivy League, notorious playboy, and sinfully good-looking,  Oliver was the heir of a hotel magnate and a fashion mogul. Thanks to his former hard-partying habits and choice in women—he’d dated an actress or two—he was a media darling, known more for his personal exploits than his reputation as a businessman.

That seemed about all anyone needed to comprehend about the man.

That is all
I
need to know about that man.

As if to serve as an additional warning, Dora appeared in the doorway to her office, draping her model-tall body against the metal frame. She was visibly agitated, displaying none of the chilly reserve I noted over a week ago when she told me the job was definitely mine.

"Lizzie?" she asked shakily, and I stared at her keenly. She waved her hand for me to come into her office. "I'm ready for you."

Nodding, I followed her inside. As I sat down in the compact chair in front of her L-shaped glass desk, my gaze fell on the
Honeymoon: Isadora and Franklin
photo frame on her desk and the picture of her and a blond guy who had the body of a professional football player, decked out in leis with their arms wrapped around each other. They looked happy, and I felt my heart jerk.

"Lizzie?" My head popped up and Dora combed her hand through her straight auburn hair and gave me a tight smile that made my own cheeks hurt. "You'll have to excuse what you just saw," she said, her words spoken cautiously.

Taking in the bright splotches peppering her ivory face and neck, I couldn't help but feel sorry for her. What had Oliver said, or done, to provoke her? I was ashamed to admit that after some of the jobs I'd worked in Vegas, my thoughts automatically crept toward the not-safe-for-work variety, but when I inhaled, I noticed the air reeked of a lemon-scented incense warmer, not sex.

"I honestly wasn't even paying attention. I...." I cut myself off and looked down at my lap.

Dora's high-arched, burnished gold eyebrows pulled together. "You what?"

I mustered a nervous laugh and shrugged. "It's my dad. He was texting like crazy this morning, and I had to respond. He'd freak out if I didn't." It was a lie that made me nauseous, but it was also necessary. I wasn't Gemma Emerson here, I was Lizzie Connelly.

Lizzie had a family—a mother and father as well as two siblings she was extremely close to.

"Hmm ... well, in any case, let's get you all set up so you can be on your way." She fixated her gray eyes intently on the computer screen and pecked on the keyboard. "I just need a couple of things from you."

"Yes, I received your email." I reached into my purse and pulled out the ID I'd presented to Carl downstairs not even fifteen minutes ago and the folded direct deposit form I had printed and completed at home. My earnings would be going to a prepaid debit card—another one of Pen’s brilliant ideas.

"Wonderful, I'll just take this out to Pamela to make a copy for our records." Dora scooted backward and left the office, her ballet flats padding lightly on the carpet. I didn't dare turn to look at her because I knew I would give myself away and instead of going to the seventh floor—Margaret's floor—I'd be promptly escorted out of Emerson & Taylor by the police. I took Dora's absence as an opportunity to catch my breath and allow myself to grasp that I'd made it in.

I was here, in this building.

And if I were smart, I'd leave in a month or two with all of Margaret's secrets. And if those secrets included anything that had directly harmed my father or screwed me over...

"All finished." The sound of Dora's voice made me jump, but I didn’t think she noticed as she took her seat. She slid my ID across the desk. I picked it up, careful not to make contact with her so she wouldn't feel the nervous sweat dampening my palms. Leaning back in her chair, she offered me an expression that somewhat resembled a smile. "You're done here. You can go home."

Sharp fear speared the pit of my stomach. Keeping my demeanor calm, I put my ID in my bag and cocked my eyebrow at Dora. "Is anything wrong?"

She studied her computer screen, not looking at me, and my heart felt like it was seconds from exploding from my chest. I glanced at the door, confident that at any second, law enforcement would burst in and drag me away.

"Not at all,” Dora said dismissively, grabbing a half-full iced coffee from the edge of her desk that I hadn’t noticed before. I let the relief sink in as she took a sip and sighed. “As you already know from our discussion last week, Margaret's been working remotely while overseas for fashion week. She was supposed to be back in the office yesterday, but she was delayed. She’s adamant that you don't start until she returns."

"I see. And when will that be?"

Dora dabbed at her mouth with a pink lipstick-stained napkin and studied the large calendar beneath her keyboard. After several seconds, she tapped her finger on October tenth, three days from today. "She'll definitely be back and settled in by Thursday.” She glanced up at me, blowing wisps of hair from her face. "Can you be here first thing Thursday morning?"

I nodded a little too eagerly. "Yes, of course."

"I've asked Pamela to give Carl a call to let him know you'll be stopping by for your badge on the way out.” As if she’d completely brushed off whatever had happened between her and Oliver, Dora stood to dismiss me. “Welcome to Emerson & Taylor, Miss Connelly."

*

L
eaving the HR department, and even as I rode the elevator back downstairs to Carl, anxiety crawled through my veins. I found the security guard leisurely sipping the coffee Stella had bribed him with, watching me with light eyes that made me feel like he could see right through me.

“Excited?” he asked, as he presented a newly printed badge on the counter in front of me. He placed a clipboard beside it and motioned for me to sign beside where my name was neatly printed. “It’s a good company. I’ve been here since ninety-four.”

He was here before my parents divorced
, I thought. Had I met Carl when I was a child? Had he checked my mother and me through security so we could visit my father? If I told him who I was right now, would Carl remember me?

I responded with a smile, but my eyes unintentionally wandered to the left side of the lobby where my mom’s photo hung. “I can’t wait to meet Ms. Emerson.” My hand shook as I signed Lizzie Connelly—the name I’d practiced so many times over the last few months I could likely sign the damn thing in my sleep. “I’ve looked up to her ever since I was a little girl.” Saying those words aloud nearly choked me, but I maintained my expression.

“Every girl who comes through that door says that,” Carl mused as I shoved my new employee ID in my purse. When I forced myself to make eye contact, his forehead was wrinkled. "You can relax now; you've already got the job."

"I
am
relaxed."

"Uh-huh." He took another drink of his coffee, polishing it off. He tossed the cup into a wastebasket beneath the security desk. "You have a good one, Miss Connelly. We'll see you Thursday."

I felt the blood rushing to my face as I hurried away from the desk and across the lobby. My short legs seemed to take impossibly long strides in my effort to get to the parking garage.
We did it
, I thought, feeling weightless, invincible.

We
did
it.

As I rode the elevator down to the garage, I groped around in my bag for my phone. My eyes were trained on the screen when I stepped out of the steel car, so I stood to the side of the elevator, out of the line of any traffic that might come through the silent garage as I started my message to Penelope.

Margaret won't be back until Thursday, so I'm not needed until then, but I'm in. I'm officially in. You are a genius, Lisbeth. Neal. Whoever the hell you are.

I was about to hit send, but the deafening blast of a car horn drew a shriek from the back of my throat. My phone tumbled from my hands, the screen shattering on the concrete with a crack that signaled the end of the iPhone I’d only had for a few months. Furious, I stared at the splintered screen for a second before lifting my eyes, seething at the horn blower.

Sitting less than ten feet away from me was a jet black Dodge Viper.

And climbing out of the sleek car and coming right at me was Oliver.

What the hell was he doing?

Suddenly hyperaware of his every movement, I angled my body slightly away from his, hunching my shoulders defensively. Christ, he really was something to look at.

"Was I in your way?" I demanded hotly as I stalked forward to grab my phone. He beat me to it. Assessing the damage, his full lips curled into a frown. Somehow, he even made a foul expression look sensual.

"You could've walked in front of my car.”

This was one of those blonde jokes—it had to be. "Standing perfectly still?" I questioned sardonically. At his serious nod, I softly bit my tongue, sliding it from side to side between my teeth a few times so I wouldn’t respond callously.
He’s my boss’ son
, I reminded myself. In all honesty though, Oliver probably deserved every rough word I wanted to give him at the moment. "Thank you for the warning,” I said dryly.

A broad grin spreading across his face, he held my phone out to me. Noticing my reluctance to take it, his fingers skimmed mine as he placed it in my palm. His fleeting touch was a shock to my system, a jolt of pure electricity that sent all my nerve endings into chaos. Exhaling, he stared down at my hands. The expression in his blue eyes was unreadable.

“Thank you,” I said again, dropping the sarcasm this time.

“Anytime.” He clenched his fingers. “What's your name?" When I didn't answer, focusing instead on stowing the now useless iPhone in one of the zippered compartments of my purse, he moved even closer to me. The warm, heady scent of his cologne washed over me, causing my stomach to flutter. "Which floor are you on?"

I hoisted my bag higher on my shoulder and rolled my eyes. "So you can scare the shit out of me there, too?"

He ran his teeth over his lip. The gesture was almost ... inviting. Abruptly, the feather-soft fluttering in my stomach gave way to a sharp swell of something I didn’t want to identify by name. I always did have a thing for the beautiful ones, especially when they were so clearly out of my reach. "So I can replace your phone,” he offered, his deep voice cutting through my thoughts.

"I have insurance, but thanks." I smiled tightly and started to walk around him. "Now, if you don’t mind, I—"

When he reached out and grabbed my wrist, the first thing that registered in my brain was how hot his fingers felt on my skin. Grazing my pulse point, his touch was soft and yet commanding. It was a touch from a man used to getting his way.

"Wait," he ordered, and my pulse skipped. Unhurriedly, I turned on my heel to look at him warily. Although he should have released my arm, he didn’t. Instead, he pulled me closer to him and touched my chin with his thumb.

“What do you think—”

He tilted my face up so we were eye-to-eye. "Your name. I asked you your name.”

"Lizzie Connelly."

"Lizzie...” His voice trailed off as he tested the pseudonym on his tongue. Smirking like the cat that ate the canary—or in his case, the petite blond lady—he started, “I'm Oliver—"

I cut him off by tugging free of his distracting grip. Taking the hint, he moved his other hand from my face, and I released a breath of relief. "I already know exactly who you are."